


First Date

by MissingTriforce



Series: A Kinder Universe [4]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Blood Sharing, Cameos, Companionable Snark, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Kissing, Nonbinary Character, Other, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Queer Culture, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingTriforce/pseuds/MissingTriforce
Summary: Beckett returns to Casablanca and realizes that Cassandra owes him a conversation about open relationships. She suggests Sergio take Beckett out on a date about this.Takes place August 1943. They/them pronouns for Sergio
Relationships: Beckett/Original Malkavian Character(s) (Vampire: The Masquerade)
Series: A Kinder Universe [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645372
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	First Date

Eagerness flooded his senses as he wound through Casablanca’s streets. The August heat relented to a simmer after sunset, and Beckett had to consciously block the noise of the crowd enjoying the dusty coolness of deep evening. He’d not been here before this second World War, but he’d been in boom towns and heard the same carpe diem cacophony. Everyone drank their relief at not being dead, or toasted to their imminent demise. Dancing. Music. Cards. Dice. Smoking.

The street party raged, and Beckett moved fluidly through it like the predator he was. Avid and focused, he found Frank’s on the main street. The club looked the same as he’d left it—well, the Eid decorations were down. Its entrance columns twisted with vines, heavy with white flowers. His ears perked at the jazz music flowing like steam out of the doors.

He crossed the threshold and took a breath. Human sweat, the liquid sweetness of fruit juice, the bare tang of alcohol, silk against skin…and grave soil. He’d missed this. He missed turning his head and seeing her.

“ _Blood and roses—it’s all blood and roses_ ,” Cassandra sang in her deep, throaty voice. This was one of her originals, wasn’t it? He’d taken the liberty of searching through one of her bedrooms in LA and discovered a most educational collection of records.

Crowned in blonde curls and eyes sooty with kohl, she stood tall on the stage and poured her soul into the microphone. A gruff and wild-haired man tickled the piano behind her—the eponymous Frank. Excitement bubbled in his chest as Cassandra opened her arms, “ _You sip me; and I sip you_.” He stepped toward her as if drawn like a fish on the line. Her sound curled around his torso; tingled against the backs of his teeth. She was Kindred—if he said her name, she would know he was here. He had returned and fulfilled his promise. “ _That longing in your veins—it’s infected me too_.”

Instead, his ears caught on a sharpened intake of breath and a long dreamer’s sigh. His gaze tore from Cassandra to the source—Sergio. Her ghoul. They sat alone at a little booth near the stage. Beckett was about to shrug the sigh off, but his brain caught up. Sergio’s expression. It was unusual, for a ghoul. Beckett stalked closer. That softness in their eyes, the curled fondness of their smile—it wasn’t vapid adoration. No suffering of addiction satisfied.

They loved her. That was a look of a healthy lover.

The impression weighed on him like a hundred bricks. Had he misjudged? Cassandra and he enjoyed each other, but maybe, without any nascent blood bond…. Sergio and she had known each other for far longer. Had his and Cassandra’s whole fling been a side note in a deeper relationship? He knew his own mind and feelings, but Cassandra’s were separate and different. An uncharacteristic claw of jealously hooked into his insides and tugged.

Unluckily, his presence was noticed. Perhaps drawn by the feeling of being observed, Sergio spotted him. Beckett stuck his hands in his pockets and attempted to smile. Recognition glowed on Sergio’s narrow face, and they waved.

Beckett supposed he could do nothing else. He made the journey to Sergio’s table.

“Beckett! You made it back!” In a gesture so similar to Cassandra it sent a pang through him, Sergio opened their arms, drew Beckett in, and kissed him on both cheeks. The sense of intrusion settled into his muscles. He shouldn’t be here.

“Sit, sit,” Sergio said. “When did you land? Your last telegram was from Florida, of all places.”

“Florida is the state God abandoned, so of course there are some interesting Anarchs there,” Beckett said, letting wryness shield his worry. He slid into the booth and mentally chided himself for idling too long in romantic dreams of Cassandra running into his arms and letting him spin her around and kiss her.

“You have snuck in an adventure,” Sergio said, their smile widening. “Did you find anything? The pulps tell me the fountain of youth is there.”

“And what use would I have for that?”

Dark eyes shining behind their spectacles, Sergio laughed and patted Beckett on the shoulder. “True, true. And I have no need for that kind of trouble either.”

For possibly the first time in his unlife, Beckett didn’t feel like sharing his stories. He sat like a rock and let the conversation die.

Sergio frowned. “Beckett?”

Beckett pointedly turned his chin to the stage. Cassandra’s music sounded muted, and her figure on the stage blurred. He’d been so hopeful. She wasn’t singing _for him_. She hadn’t been holding memories for warmth in the long morning. He was only a blip of static on her radio. All his adrenaline earlier fueled despair now. Idiot. He folded his hands on the table, like he expected someone to rap his knuckles.

Sergio’s long, white fingers laid across his gloved ones. “Is it because I’m a ghoul?”

Beckett didn’t startle. He was an elder Gangrel—he did _not_ startle. But his shoulder did jerk, and his mind raced to categorization—room with nicotine smoke in the air and a bar full of alcohol, crawling with kine, Malkavian ghoul. “What?”

“Why you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong,” Sergio explained. “I sometime forget that even you can fulfill stereotypes.”

What an insult. Unperturbed, Sergio looked the same as ever. Their deep brown, almost black hair was slicked back, though a stray, wavy tendril twisted round their ear. Their glasses teetered on their Roman nose. A petite jawbone stood out as they swallowed.

“It has nothing to do with your status,” Beckett said. His gaze dropped to the table, where Sergio and he still touched. Sergio’s fingers registered as alien heat against the frigid back of his hand, even through the black leather of his gloves.

Sergio’s frown deepened, and they eyed Beckett critically. Beckett recognized the face he made when he encountered a troubling bit of translation. “You are not physically injured.” A beat and their face smoothed to peacefulness again. They patted Beckett’s wrists. “After this set, we will go to Cassandra’s room to surprise her. Then, you will tell Cassandra. And then I will help with whatever it is.”

“You always help her, don’t you?” Beckett said.

“Of course, she is my wife,” Sergio smiled and rested their elbow on the table and their chin on their hand, so they could look at her with that same expression, the one that sealed Beckett’s fate. _Wife._

He would get to the bottom of this and know the ending of it. “When did she and you wed?”

Sergio turned sharp to him, with an eyebrow raised in surprise. “It is not formal, but a descriptor. She is my wife. She is also wife to Sancha, and to Zelde.” Sergio’s gaze narrowed again. “She is _your_ wife.”

Beckett choked on his own tongue. “ _I beg your pardon_?”

The impression of surprise deepened on Sergio’s face. “What do you mean, you begging pardon?”

Beckett coughed until he regained his composure. “We’re not married. You’re—you’re married.”

“We are speaking of the same thing, yes? Of those who—what is a term you would know—those who prefer lavender?”

Beckett glowered. “I _know_ about queer culture, Sergio. I was there when it started.”

True dismay marred the ghoul’s face. “Firstly, you were not there when Enkidu sucked Gilgamesh’s lolly. We have been here since the beginning. You haven’t hit three hundred. I do not like any more of a May-December romance.”

Annoyance flared. “What, exactly, do you want, Tessaro?”

Sergio peered at him through their glasses. They leaned in closer, and Beckett resisted the urge to lean backward. At least in this confusion, he could trust Gangrel instincts to not back down. They raised their hand and, slowly, gently, traced a hot finger against Beckett’s cheekbone.

His eyelashes fluttered, and he sucked in a small breath. Human warmth—a tender line of fire against his skin.

“She didn’t tell you, did she?” Sergio said, soft. “That I admire you too.”

The Beast within him growled.

He needed direction; he needed distraction. He glanced at Cassandra. She wasn’t looking this way—she might not even know he was here. Maybe he could escape any and all entanglements of the heart.

Sergio must have followed his line of sight. “She won’t see us. Cassandra never looks at me, when she’s performing. She says it is too powerful. If she saw me, her heart would flutter and she’d forget her audience and only sing for us.” They sighed. “Such a softie, mi tesorina.”

Together they watched her for a few minutes, letting the spell of piano and voice wash over them. Beckett breathed and calmed his Beast. It was true—though her dark eyes opened, she never looked this booth’s way. He would end things neatly.

“Come, come,” Sergio said as another song started. “This is her final song of the set. She will have a little break.”

Beckett followed their beckoning to slip past a small door to the left of the stage. A nondescript hallway led to a dressing room—one that was evidently shared by many, judging by the number of mirrors, makeup kits, clothing racks, and changing screens. No one was in at the moment. With Kindred endurance, Cassandra could certainly sing all night, if she so chose. No need for another songstress.

“If this were a more playful encounter, we could hide,” Sergio said, knocking a knuckle against a changing screen. “And yell ‘Surprise!’ like it is her birthday.”

“You know,” Beckett tried, but then found himself floundering.

“Hm?” Clearly at ease once again, Sergio sat down in a free chair next to the vanity, crossed their arms, and set their ankle on the opposite leg.

Second time’s the charm. “I am sorry I did not think to ask before, but I hope I’m not intruding on anything between you and Cassandra,” Beckett said, desperately trying to remember manners and social niceties drilled into him far too long ago. How to be delicate? “She and I—we sort of—fell into it.” God, could he be more lame? “I would understand if you would prefer that we, that is to say I, take a step back and not repeat the relations we had on the Bonpensiero ship last autumn.”

Sergio rewarded Beckett with a sad smile. “That is kind of you to say, but you did not need to. Cassandra and I—well, it is Cassandra and everyone—have an arrangement.”

The door opened. Beckett turned to greet whoever it was, and he barely registered the shimmery dress and red lips before Cassandra was in his arms, violets filled his nose, and those same lips kissed him.

“Beckett!” she exclaimed. “I’ve missed you so much!”

Beckett froze. She would be so bold right in front of her spouse? Cassandra must have sensed his awkwardness, for she stiffened too. She drew back, and sadness split his insides at the growing, searching consternation in her face. “What’s wrong?”

Sergio said something low and searching in Sicilian—or Beckett judged it Sicilian, for how it sounded like Italian but remained frustrating, just-out-of-reach gibberish. In any case, though she still had her hands on his shoulders, Cassandra looked past Beckett and narrowed her eyes at her ghoul. “I have _not_ been naughty. What are you talking about?”

His Beast growled, and Beckett felt the thrum of its want. It welcomed the lithe feel of her body pressed to his, and the animal did not understand any principle that would separate it from its mate. At least he’d fed earlier this night, as a precaution. He wished he’d thought to fortify himself against other, less tangible disappointments.

Sergio said something that distinctly sounded like a dressing down. Cassandra squirmed. She wiggled out of his arms, and he let her go.

Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose and replied in Sicilian something sharp and then something contrite. Beckett had once observed a secret language between the Bonpensieros—some familial subtext—but now they literally spoke a dialect beyond him, on purpose, to his face. He put his hands in his pockets to hide his fists.

He asked, “What is the meaning of this? It’s rude to speak in a language someone in the room doesn’t know.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sergio said. “She knows I am serious when it is Sicilian.”

“There shall be apologies all around,” Cassandra said in English. She waved her hand in an abstract manner at Sergio, before fully turning to face the two of them again. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and then the force of her dark gaze was on him. “I’m sorry, Beckett. I should have explained before I seduced you. That is the better way of things.”

“Explained that Sergio is your spouse and I am simply an affair, you mean?” He couldn’t keep the acid out of his voice.

Cassandra winced. “I can see how you come to that conclusion, but that isn’t it at all.”

“I tried to joke with him, and it made him sad,” Sergio remarked in a reproachful tone. “All that time alone, Zelde and I gave you, and you didn’t explain.”

“I was busy,” Cassandra insisted. “With letters.”

“‘Letters,’” Sergio huffed. “That is not the definition.”

“Either someone explain to me, or I shall leave,” Beckett interrupted.

Sergio and Cassandra stared at each other. Neither blinked, but Cassandra eventually broke eye contact. “All right, all right, but I have to go in ten minutes.”

A pleased smirk appeared on Sergio’s face. “Do what you can, and I’ll be outside.” They rose from their chair with alacrity and slipped outside, closing the door with a click.

Cassandra and he were alone.

She pressed her palms to her eyes. She muttered, “I really must work on myself and my habits, oh dear.”

“What is this arrangement you and Sergio have?” Beckett’s Beast smelled prey, even when said prey would hurt it. He closed in on the truth.

“Forgive me. I’m sorry,” Cassandra said. Her hands dropped, and she reached for him, but Beckett stepped back. Cassandra gave a wry smile and dropped her hands. “I suppose I deserve that.” A beat of silence. “Ooh, this is hard.”

“And you haven’t said anything yet.”

Cassandra took a deep breath, and something like determination showed in the set of her shoulders. “Have you ever been in love, Beckett?”

Beckett couldn’t stiffen his posture more. “I have.”

Cassandra fiddled with her fingers in an anxious fidget. “Have you ever been in love with more than one person? At the same time?”

Oh.

_Oh._

His astonishment must have shown plain on his face, but Cassandra’s smile grew more genuine. “Yes, like that. Polyamory, or open relationships, if you like. You see, Sergio and I love each other, but we do not begrudge one another other partners. It would be like trying to bottle wind. Mostly it’s sex. Sometimes it’s feelings, but we always check in and make sure we’re okay. I—” Cassandra paused, and Beckett received the distinct impression that if she was human, she would blush. “I love Sergio, and we enjoy each other. Zelde loves us all, but she prefers not to dance upon bedsprings, so it’s all romantic feelings and affection among us. And I love Sancha, back in LA, and her daughter Elena is my daughter too. Sancha has a whole queer family of other people, and I’m sort of their guardian angel with fangs.” Cassandra gave a little laugh. “But it’s easy in practice, so long as we all keep talking.”

Well, that certainly shed some light. “And what about me?”

Cassandra seemed surprised. “You?”

Beckett would not back down. “How do I fit in this…love polycule?”

“It’s a bit like a family, with an overabundance of parents. Or a _very_ sharing coterie,” Cassandra said. She put a finger on her chin, thinking. “How do you want to fit in?”

Hope may be a thing with feathers, but Beckett would keep it grounded for now. “I want you to still travel with me. I want what we had on the ship. I don’t mind being friends with Sergio and the rest, certainly. I hadn’t really considered anything else. And you should know that I am—I have Anatole, in France.”

Cassandra perked up. “I thought so. The way you described him.”

“After the first World War, my sire, Aristotle, instituted a rule within our Noddist community that if a global conflict begins, we will spread ourselves thin, so as to decrease the likelihood that all our libraries and members will be destroyed in one catastrophe. Usually Anatole and I are quite close. We, er, have an understanding.” It was his turn to not-blush.

She beamed. “That is wonderful, darling! Congratulations.” Cassandra clapped her hands. “Oh! I have just had the most wonderful idea. You and Sergio should go on a date!”

Beckett’s brow furrowed. “A date,” he repeated. “For what purpose?”

“Why, to get to know one another of course!” Cassandra said, cheer returning. “And they can answer any more questions you have. I really can’t get out of singing tonight—Jeanette’s other workers are home with colds, poor things. Not influenza, don’t worry.”

Beckett arched a brow. “I wasn’t.”

“Well, we were speaking of world wars, so I thought I should clarify.” Cassandra shrugged and moved to knock on the door.

Without thinking, Beckett leapt and grabbed her from behind. He wrapped around her waist and pressed them together, like she was a vision only bound to this earth by his arms. The smell of violets and soil clung to her still, and he buried his face in her hair. “Sorry, I—I need assurance. You didn’t answer. I still have you, correct? You’re coming with me?” His voice was so small and he hated it.

Cassandra leaned back and put her hands over his. “My darling, the only reason I would deny you tenderness is if you wanted none from me.”

“And you’ll follow me?”

“Anywhere you like,” Cassandra chuckled. She stilled, and then raised a hand to press against his head, to twine fingers in his hair. “You’re thinking of someone else right now.”

He was, but he certainly wasn’t going to bring her up. When he didn’t reply, Cassandra turned and kissed him. The kiss was like the lights going on after a blackout. He cradled her face, because he could move again, could think, could breathe, as silly as that sounded. Comfort seeped into the very lines and planes of his body. When they broke apart, she said, “It will be all right, you’ll see.”

A noise low in this throat. “How can you bear—,” The leather snagged as he ran hands through her curls. “—to feel so much?” Stranger yet stranger; these feelings curiouser and curiouser. Hope bubbled everlasting.

Cassandra gave him a considering look. “Ventrue have their ambition, Tremere, their power; Brujah, their passion; Gangrel, all of nature in their palm—I have my Malkavian web of love. Their happiness, that we are in right relation, that our future is secure—it’s all I care about these nights.”

Beckett forced his face to betray nothing. “You aren’t interested in Caine anymore?”

“Oh, _that_ ,” Cassandra laughed. “Who says I cannot love everyone properly and be a Noddist? I still want to learn and improve myself and hear every story lodged in your brain. And,” Cassandra darted a kiss on the corner of his mouth, “you are one of the people I want to make happy.”

“How—never mind,” Beckett shook his head.

Cassandra laughed again. “Are you ready for Sergio? I’m afraid I must redo my lipstick and sing again.”

Beckett nodded, and Cassandra opened the door. He tried to calm the spinning in his brain, as the Malkavian couple had a quick logistical chat.

Sergio’s aspect brightened with every word. They rubbed their hands together, like a genius plan was unfolding perfectly. “You look like you’re hatching a plot on one of those radio plays,” Beckett said, but that only made Sergio smile wider.

“So you do know modern art. Does that mean you dress like a radio hero on purpose?” Sergio teased.

Beckett couldn’t stop the smirk. “I dress the way I do because it’s functional. Nothing more.”

Cassandra beamed at this exchange. “Ohhh, have fun, you two. You can leave your bag, Beckett. Go on, now.”

Taking his satchel from him, she shooed them out. Cassandra may think a date would be fun, but “awkward” was the descriptor that sprang to Beckett’s mind. “You don’t—”

Sergio interrupted. “You have lipstick on your face.”

“Oh,” Beckett said, a bit lamely. He licked a finger and scrubbed at his cheeks.

“There,” Sergio assured him. “All good?”

“As ever.”

“Let’s go!”

Sergio led Beckett out of the hallway and through the club. It took thirty seconds for Beckett to realize they were not headed to their original booth, but in fact, the exit. “We aren’t staying here?”

“Of course not!” Sergio paused long enough to give Beckett an aghast look. “I would never be so gauche as to take a date to where they are staying. We go to different dance club.”

They hit the streets, and Sergio wove through the crowd just as fluidly as Beckett had earlier this evening. With their short stature and nondescript manner, Beckett might have lost them in the mess of partygoers.

As if they heard the thought, Sergio held out a hand. “So we don’t lose each other.”

Beckett hesitated a moment. To hell with it. He took the proffered palm.

Leather gloves or no leather gloves, it was like grasping a hot iron, and Beckett had to fight the bestial instinct to pull away. The press of people, the dry desert summer, maybe Sergio naturally ran hot—for whatever reason, Sergio burned him with fervor.

The ghoul tugged him along. They crossed the street, down two blocks, through an alley, and one block more before they stopped before a dance club with a French theme. Fleur-de-lis were painted in blue on the wall, along with a subtle scepter and sword. The clan symbol of the Ventrue.

“Patronizing a rival establishment? We’ll break la dame Jeanette’s heart, going here,” Beckett said archly.

Glancing backward, Sergio put a finger to their lips, and mischief twinkled in their eyes. “We shall tell her we wanted to scope out the enemy.”

Almost impossibly, the noise doubled once they stepped fully inside. People chattered, the band blasted, chairs scraped, and full glasses clanked. Woodsy, vanilla-smelling cigar smoke hung in the air like a cloud, along with cheap sticky cologne. Some man gave a war whoop from their table and dived onto the dance floor, where the dancers happily caught him. The music had a rowdy kick, more horn that Beckett had heard in his life. He consciously sent blood away from his ears—if he attempted any sort of heightened sense, he’d been rendered deaf.

Ever confident, Sergio beelined it for some sort of VIP backroom. A dour bouncer, a velvet rope, and a solid looking door separated Kindred and kine. Sergio whispered something in the bouncer’s ear, and the man nodded and lifted the rope. With a heave, the door opened, and they went in.

Thank God it was quieter here. And also like stepping back a century or more. Classical tunes more fit for a Victorian romance tinkled out, and couples waltzed with a rehearsed air, like one of solemn performance. Crystal chandeliers lit with candles dripped from the ceiling as the sole light source. Gilt mirrors hung on the walls, and plenty of elegant iron tablework occupied the dim corners. A small bar was tucked in the far corner, with a barman fastidiously polishing glasses.

Sergio stood on their toes to whisper in Beckett’s ear. “You find a table and I’ll get drinks.”

“Oh, I don’t—”

“They have your type here, do not worry.”

Beckett shrugged. The Beast would be pleased. Sergio’s overwarm hand left his, and Beckett made for the darkest corner. Casablanca had no leading sect, so Beckett had been able to flit straight to Frank’s after landing. No need to announce his presence in a formal manner. While he was at it, no need to make a production of himself informally.

He hadn’t settled in for more than a minute when Sergio returned with a frothy tankard of beer for themself and a shapely glass of blood for him. “Salute,” Sergio said, and they clinked glasses.

Beckett sipped the blood, which the Beast felt it had more than earned with its restraint in regard to Cassandra. He knew his return to her circle of influence would produce feelings outside the normal scope, but he’d been spun and turned about and yanked more in the last thirty minutes than he had in the last thirty years.

Sergio made a sound of pleasure after their drink, and they smacked their lips. “That’s a good saison! The delicious lemon flavor. Did you like beer, when you could?”

“It was practically all there was to drink,” Beckett said. “Everyone was constantly tipsy.”

Sergio gave a deep chuckle. “Could be fun, no?”

“Kindred society would take some interesting turns if everyone was a lush, yes. Some days I’m convinced it would be better, in fact.”

“Kindred do tie themselves in quite the knot,” Sergio agreed. They arched an eyebrow and leaned forward, skinny elbows on the table. “You strike me as someone who takes after Alexander when presented with a Gordian.”

The image of him slicing open political meetings made him smirk. “Why thank you.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t run me through with questions already,” Sergio smiled, and it was a smile that distinctly reminded Beckett of the Cheshire Cat.

He took another sip of blood—this was AB-, quite the luxury in this part of the world. He was curious. “Cassandra said she loves you.”

“Yes.”

“And you love her?”

“Yes.”

Something had flickered across Sergio’s face when they said that, and Beckett wanted to track it like others did stars. “Why?”

Sergio’s eyes widened. “Why?” they repeated. Beckett nodded and Sergio continued, “Why not? She is beautiful, kind, has excellent taste in art, and is a good conversationalist.”

“That’s all you need to fall in love?”

“Why one person with certain attractive traits is the beloved is a mystery. I could list what I like about Cassandra all night, and you, with your sharp mind, could find someone that fit the exact description on the street. But they would not be beloved by me. They are not her.”

Sergio had a point. “Well said.”

The ghoul pushed their glasses back up their nose and drank more beer before asking, “Can I trade questions?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Why do you travel alone?”

“I’m not alone,” Beckett said before he could think over his answer. It was the truth, in a way—people did surround him, as he hopped from Elysium to Elysium, sect to sect.

But Sergio of course meant deeper than that. They shook their head. “No, I mean you are _alone_.”

Beckett sighed. “You know Kindred society. My back is partial to not having stab wounds in it.”

Sergio’s eyebrows knit in worry. “The Mnemosyne are not a coterie? Why don’t you travel in group with them?”

“We all have our own projects, or there’s a war on and we’re trying not to all be victims of the same bomb. I confess I do prefer traveling with Anatole and Lucita.”

Sergio drank more beer. They gave the impression of deep thought. “Maybe you should know, then, that I don’t need Auspex to tell you are sad.”

“Pardon?” The word came out sharper than he meant it.

“Auspex tells a Kindred’s emotional state—”

“I know what Auspex does.”

“Well, you have a lonely aura. You are so eager for anyone to talk, to think with you, to do puzzles with. I am glad Cassandra will go with you, to guard this flank.”

“I have done well on my own until now, you know.” The familiar, needled feeling he sometimes got around Malkavians prickled his neck. Anatole chided him like this too.

“You are an Elder, that is nothing to sneeze at,” Sergio said, solemn. “Sometimes I wonder if Cassandra will ever make it to such an age.” They rubbed their face, as if to clear away the thought. “Being alive is so difficult. It is your turn for a question.”

“How do you know your love is not a result of the blood bond? I assume you have a blood bond.”

The chuckle Sergio made had a darkness in it. “I just know it. We were in love before. It feels the same. And Cassandra is careful, when asking me things. I know she is, even if she has never said outright.”

“And that is enough?”

“It is more than enough. I would not trade her for the world.” Sergio straightened, as if a thought occurred to them. “Did you know that Cassandra originally was going to Embrace me, and not Zelde?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, she thought it only proper, because I was her ghoul first. But I don’t want to be Embraced, no matter how romantic it is. I don’t want to lose….” Carefully, with almost reverence, Sergio touched their wrist. “The warmth.”

“Then you were able to say no?”

Sergio nodded and laughed into their beer. “And I like beer too much. I think ghouls have a better card hand, if you think beyond the face of things. We live forever and need hurt no one. The politics are above our heads. We keep our humanity, our breath, our heartbeat, our ability to enjoy immortality. We do not have a Beast to trouble us.”

“So long as you have a kind regnant.”

“Yes, that is the rub. It is an easily exploitable position.” Sergio shrugged. “If Enzo had ghouled me, I would have killed him in his sleep long ago.”

Beckett tried not show alarm. “Dare I ask why?”

“Guillermo barely knows his own name, with the number of Ventrue forgettings Enzo does to him. Poor fool. But I am forgetting the game. It is my turn. What is the happiest moment of your unlife, so far?”

“Happiest…?” Beckett pondered for a moment—flashes of Anatole’s sleepy smile, and Lucita’s bloodthirsty grin darted through his brain. Yet he didn’t want to share those. Those were his alone. “When Aristotle and I finished our collection of the Book of Nod and it was sent out into the world. That was my proudest moment.”

Sergio scowled. “I did not ask about pride, but I will take the answer. How about the saddest fact you know?”

That was easy. “Wraiths are frustrating, sad creatures.”

“Why?”

“They live a pitiable existence, as I’m sure you’re aware, as Cassandra gave me to understand she talks to them frequently. Wraiths offer a somber peek into the afterlife. Bleak even. Most can’t even communicate their sorrows to the living, and they are trapped in that purgatory with no escape. I can’t get anything out of them.”

“I heard a rumor that Elders can enter the land of the dead at will, and know what goes on there. Is that true?”

Beckett laughed. “Isn’t this more than one question?”

“No—I also want to know if you have been.”

“I haven’t been so foolhardy as to try. Perhaps, in a thousand years or so, I’ll have gotten answers to all my questions about this current realm, and I’ll brave the underworld to ask questions there. Maybe if I had someone to watch over me.”

Sergio smiled. “I volunteer my services.”

He laughed again, and it sent a thrill through him. “You’re certainly eager. Tell me how you and Cassandra met.”

“Demanding now, are you?” Sergio stretched back in their chair, closed their eyes, and gave one of those long dreamer’s sighs—perhaps they did that often. “The Millennium Biltmore Hotel in 1926. She was beginning her career. She looked—she looked like Psyche, and I was her Eros. There was no other outcome to our meeting.”

“Love at first sight then?”

“We were in the papers. I was working under Adrian Gilbert, the fashion designer, and I made all Cassandra’s outfits. She offered me her arm on the red carpet, and people thought we were going to marry.”

Beckett licked his lips. Do not rush to conclusions. “But you said you didn’t.”

Sergio’s eyes fluttered open, and Beckett’s gaze followed the curve of their cheeks down to the long line of their pale neck. Hm. He drank more blood from his glass as he watched Sergio’s pulse beat.

“No, I—I became a ghoul instead.”

Beckett frowned. “I don’t follow.”

Sergio compacted themself again and paused to drink. In fact, they hunched, trying to make themself smaller. They looked at the table and drew circles. “I remember it was July 1929. Very hot, that summer, the kind that makes people’s blood boil over and the hair stick atrocious. Cassandra, Sancha, and I were at a house party, together, laughing, drinking, making eyes.” Their tone was almost wistful at this point, but the next words turned cold. “The police broke down the door. Because we were queer—the papers said it was an alcohol raid, but that is not true. Chaos. People fighting, screaming, trying to escape. I think Sancha threw a champagne bottle. I try to protect the ladies. It, uh, gets blurry. I remember Cassandra could only save one of us, and Sancha had her daughter Elena waiting for her at home….”

Beckett waited.

“They beat me to death’s door, and Cassandra did not want to watch me die,” Sergio concluded. They ran a hand through their hair and blew deliberate air out their mouth. “Now you know.”

“Thank you for telling me, Sergio.”

They gave a weak smile. “How were you Embraced? Fair to ask, yes?”

Well, if he was going to talk about _that_ —Beckett polished off his drink. “I liked nighttime walks.”

“Yes?”

“Gangrel sires are followers of that bastard Herbert Spencer.”

Sergio slammed down their tankard of beer, making the liquid slosh. “That punk ass son of bitch,” they pronounced. “Would you like me to extract justice from them? Could be fun, no?”

Laughter burst out of Beckett, and Sergio’s Cheshire grin widened. They teased, “Come on, tell me.”

“I’ll think about it, hm? Let us table the discussion for later,” Beckett chuckled.

“Hmph,” Sergio said. They chugged the rest of their drink without breaking eye contact. After a satisfied lip-smack, Sergio asked, “Would you like to dance?”

Beckett eyed the dance floor. “You know the waltz?”

“Of course. I’m not a Puritan. Do you know the waltz?”

“It’s been several decades since I’ve been forced, yes.”

“Ah, but it is the language of the body in love! Dance with me tonight. If not the waltz, we can do the Rumba, which is like the waltz but with more hips and flinging.”

“Sounds exciting,” Beckett said. “But it is in the other room.”

Sergio’s brows drew together in apparent confusion. “So?”

Beckett deliberately looked Sergio up and down, as if admiring the cut of their flowing, white cotton suit’s sloped shoulders and square waist. Height of fashion and perfect for the summer air, but definitely masculine in design and connotation.

Sergio followed Beckett’s gaze and looked down at themself, chin almost touching their resplendent, proud black bow tie. They met Beckett’s gaze on the way back up, and their eyes welled with sincerity. “Beckett, I don’t know how to tell you this….”

He sensed a joke. He was beginning to like Sergio’s rather violent sense of humor. “What?”

“This world is ending and nobody gives a shit.”

That got the both of them giggling. The ghoul busied themself with their finished drinks and soon the pair of them were leaving the still Kindred crowd to be greeted by a veritable wall of sound. Always interested in a confluence of bodies, his Beast perked up, especially as Beckett focused on deafening his ears.

“It is not too much for you?” Sergio said, raising their voice to be heard.

Beckett shook his head. Sergio offered their hand. Beckett grasped it and let the heat seep through the gloves to his freezing bones. They dived in together.

Beckett’s first impression was that Sergio was a gentle, firm instructor. People with harsh pasts often were. They held Beckett’s right hand tight to their own and pressed a slim palm against his upper ribs. In time with the beat, Sergio moved their hips back and forth and Beckett mirrored as best he could. Surrounded by music twined with talk in French, Arabic, Darija, English, and other linguistic multitudes, they slipped and sashayed across the dance floor. Sergio teased him about his animation, even going so far as gripping Beckett’s hips to better demonstrate. The gesture wafted Sergio’s scent in his face—the spice of Arabian incense, the homey sandalwood, and cinnamon-laced cassia all warmed into a singular musk. His Beast immediately wanted more of it, desired to taste that scent on the tongue, but Sergio twirled him away too soon.

There was indeed a lot of flinging. As music swung back and forth, Sergio flung Beckett this way and back, but never totally leaving him. As Beckett got the hang of things, he copied other dancers. At one point, he lifted and hooked his leg around Sergio’s thigh, as he’d seen other couples do. This brought their faces kissing close, and Sergio grew the loveliest blush, to almost the tips of their ears. “Break,” they gasped, and Beckett felt their warm breath against his face. Chest to chest, he imagined he heard Sergio’s heart pound. Their lips looked soft.

The music flowed on without them. Delight spread along the lines of his muscles, in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. He should dance more often. He’d forgotten how fun it was—maybe because they were among kine. Kindred were far too stuffy. Here, he could be free. He could sidle up to the bar and watch as Sergio ordered shots of cool alcohol and downed them one by one. They fished an ice cube out of their drink and smeared it across their forehead.

“So hot here,” Sergio said. They dropped the ice cube down their back collar and shivered. “You are lucky.”

“How so?” Beckett smiled.

“Your Kindred are cold all the time. Look. Feel how hot I am.”

Sergio cupped his cheek. The fiery blasphemy of human skin cradled his vampiric face so gently and left no scars. Beckett closed his eyes and couldn’t help but bask in it, to appreciate the fine spice of Sergio’s pulse point so near his teeth.

When he opened his eyes again, Sergio looked soft, flush; eager. If their pupils were blown wide, Beckett dare not imagine his own. He peered over his sunglasses.

Sergio murmured almost too quiet for Beckett to hear. “Would you like to taste…?” They swallowed. “So you can get drunk as me.”

“My dear Sergio, you’re never drunk.”

Sergio took back their hand, and Beckett made himself not mourn the loss. “I will be in two minutes.” They breathed through their nose. “Normal people can’t still walk after five shots of bourbon.”

He hadn’t been counting. “Come on.”

Though two o’clock in the morning approached on nimble feet, the party bore no signs of stopping. Indulging himself by putting a hand on the small of Sergio’s back, he guided the ghoul to the water closet. Once inside, they made for the sink and splashed water on their face. The closet was small, with only two stalls, but what it lacked in space it tried to make up in intricate, beautiful mosaic tile work of fleur-de-lis, gilded mirrors, and fluffy towels. “You’re getting tired,” Beckett observed. “Shall we go back?”

“Not yet,” Sergio breathed, or that’s what Beckett thought they said. The towel they were using to dry their face muffled sound. From nowhere, Sergio pulled out their former bourbon glass, popped another ice cube, and set the glass on the sink. Thief. Beckett couldn’t help following the cube’s progress from one of Sergio’s cheeks to the other. “No one is here.”

The words broke Beckett’s trance. “Yes.” He stepped closer. He wanted. “May I?”

Sergio nodded, and Beckett was pushed into a stall with the door locked behind. Despite the cramped quarters, they fit—the smaller person fit perfectly nuzzled against him. “You’re so cool,” Sergio murmured. “Feels nice.”

“Holding you is like coming in from the cold of a long winter’s night,” Beckett confessed. “Like huddling close to a banked fire and hot coals. It feels lovely, to me.”

Sergio hummed. “I feel it.” They straightened, and Beckett watched mesmerized as a snake to a charmer. They undid an obsidian cufflink to better expose the fine, strong tendons of their wrist. The pale skin didn’t tremble as it lifted toward him. Sergio put the cufflink between their teeth and nodded.

Beckett bit down.

Honey on his tongue, sweet sugar and smoke. Was this what bourbon tasted like? Vanilla and anise in this mouth, down this throat, filling his heart. He drank in the heady taste of carissa flowers, and Sergio breathed.

With careful delicacy, Beckett licked the wound closed. This was so different than blood out of a glass—this brought a rush of power and disorientation. The room swayed as Sergio used those long fingers to button their cuff. Their cheeks were pink again.

“This is how you’re feeling?” Beckett’s words almost slurred. Tired yet electric. Drunk yet charred through from lightening. “How do you stand it?”

“We are built to feel,” Sergio said, as if it were that simple. They weren’t looking at him, wouldn’t meet his gaze in favor of fiddling with their cufflink and the stark white cotton. A thrum of distress ran through him.

“Sergio,” he said. “Look at me.”

Sergio stilled. They turned slowly, and Beckett felt the room press down on him. It was humid and heavy in here. Dampness and desire in the air. Their dark eyes—black eyes—met Beckett’s. They both wore glasses, and, though Sergio’s had clear lens, Beckett knew that they hid far more than Beckett’s dark tint.

Beckett let the words leave him. “May I kiss you?”

“God, I have been praying all night,” Sergio whispered. They stepped close and placed a thin, reverent hand on Beckett’s chest. Sergio barely breathed, and Beckett didn’t at all. His eyes were fixed on the plush softness of Sergio’s mouth. “Who could deny themselves the pleasure of knowing you?”

“Quite a lot of people find me dis—”

Sergio’s kiss bruised.

It was like being hit with a blunt instrument of passion. They clung to Beckett like he was the only man in the room, like he was the only man in town, like he was the only one in the universe. The only place to get that masculine fix, that slide of sweat and hair and muscle. Their hand slid up from his chest to his neck, to the back of his head, and it burned like a brand. Beckett gathered Sergio to him, gathered in that sandalwood-spiked incense, gathered that soft, flimsy cotton. He cupped their ass in his hand and squeezed. Sergio’s fingers twined in his hair and pulled hard; Beckett groaned.

Sergio seized on his open mouth, and suddenly the ice cube was a block of melting coolness sliding against the roof. The shock of it electrified all the more as Sergio’s bourbon-laced tongue licked its way in.

A deep growl in his throat, as the Beast took interest in these proceedings. But it wanted food and was therefore not important. Beckett slammed Sergio against the opposite stall wall and hitched a skinny thigh upward. They didn’t make any noise—just twined their bony legs around his thick hips; kissed him harder; pulled his hair again, worried his lips.

It was like making love to demon of pleasure-inducing fire. He pressed and pawed and mussed because he craved Sergio’s human heat. He ached to boil. Sergio sucked on his tongue, and Beckett shook with how much he desired. He’d been cold and starved for months—

Sergio broke away, panting. “I’m sorry, I’m not a follower of Aphrodite like Cassandra.”

Beckett almost didn’t care enough to ask. Almost. “What?”

Sergio leaned their head against the stall wall, exposing that lovely neck, and Beckett had to forcibly stop himself from continuing the kissing. “Cassandra has a Merit—the Toreadors called it ‘Priestess of Aphrodite.’ She can—” They made a wide gesture at the general situation they found themselves in “—make anyone feel human, with a skin touch.”

His eyes widened as the dots connected. “She makes the Blush of Life cost nothing.”

“Yes,” Sergio breathed. “She awakens the old senses, so Kindred can feel and sense as they did before. The old sexuality. Do not worry—it doesn’t make them like her, any more or any less. You have not been duped.” Sergio righted their head and kissed Beckett’s cheek. “I would not allow that.”

“So Zelde would remain asexual,” Beckett said.

“Yes.”

“That’s enough talking about people who are not here.”

Sergio still made no noise as Beckett pressed fangs to their neck—but their legs slid down to standing as Beckett sucked and teethed at skin. Bruises to mark the spot where he last had a face full of heat.

“You are a relief,” Sergio murmured, “to a fever I didn’t know I had.” Sergio cupped Beckett’s head for encouragement, as if Beckett needed any more inducement to mark them bloody. He scraped his fangs against the bruise. A hairsbreadth from breaking. Sergio—finally!—gasped.

Beckett let up to whisper. “You’ve been so quiet. I was beginning to think I was doing something wrong.”

Gooseflesh raised in the wake of his breath. Sergio shivered. “Never. Just—public place. Trained.”

Beckett inspected his love bite and deemed it adequate. For now. He dove for Sergio’s mouth, and the ghoul threw their arms around his neck. The gesture tipped them, and Beckett couldn’t miss the tremor and jerk of re-balance. “Come to bed with me, please,” they said in between kisses.

He’d be a madman if he let this melting body of Sicilian sun go easy. Or go untaken care of. Protective instincts flared. “I’d be delighted.” He broke off kissing in favor of snuggling his ear against Sergio’s chest. Their heart beat rapid, roasting, and erratic. Hm. “You’re all strung out, Sergio.”

Sergio laughed and pet Beckett’s head. “I have just been kissing a renowned Gangrel scholar. If my heart isn’t beating fast, tell the doctor I am dead.”

“You need food and sleep.”

“I can eat you.”

Beckett huffed. “Tomorrow, I promise, we can continue this most interesting conversation. But even I can feel the dawn approaching now. When did you wake up today?”

Sergio counted under their breath. “I wake up at seven o’clock, I think? I have to check the docks for you.”

Beckett straightened to give them a quizzical look. “For me?”

Sergio fisted fingers in the fine hairs at the nape of Beckett’s neck, and it sent thermal rivulets of coziness down his back. Beckett couldn’t help squeezing his eyes shut and moaning.

They spoke soft, “Yes, every day I check with the harbormaster to see if your boat come in early. If it had, I had places marked to check for you. I was never as good as Zelde, but I can do Auspex to see you in the ground.”

“Remarkable.” Brief and swift, Beckett sipped the bourbon vanilla of Sergio’s lips. “You’ve been up for almost twenty hours.”

Sergio shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Bit too close to twenty-four for my tastes. Let’s go home before you start collapsing.”

Sergio whined and hugged Beckett close, “Nooooooo, if you will not let me make you feel good, then share the bed with me. I don’t like to sleep alone, after a date.”

“I get the feeling you rarely do.”

“Exactly.”

After fixing their clothes, the pair of them exited the bathroom. The party had noticeably reduced, and the band played a slow tempo to coax the remaining partygoers to their beds. Beckett wrapped an arm around Sergio’s boney waist and kissed the side of their head. Sergio giggled a little madly, but nonetheless led the way out the door and across the street. Beckett hadn’t lied when he said he felt the sun—the blue hour of pre-dawn neared close as a friend who would soon be a lover. The chilliest part of the day, in the desert.

The crowd outside had equally thinned, so there was no one in the alley to see Sergio yank Beckett by his jacket’s lapels into another zinging kiss. Beckett’s lips tingled with the scorch mark of it. “You’re beautiful,” Sergio panted, when they paused. “It makes me want to mess you up.”

The leather of his gloves dragged delicious through Sergio’s slick hair. “You say that like you didn’t make fun of my clothing choices earlier.”

“Mm, your body is beautiful, but what you chose to drape that muscle in is atrocious,” they amended. They booped Beckett on the nose. “Another night I will convince you to let me change that.”

Beckett laughed. Eventually the pair unglued themselves long enough to return to Frank’s. Instead of going through the front, Sergio made for the kitchen entrance. “They are closed now, but perhaps I can steal a little snack.”

War or no, the pantry was overflowing. Sergio grabbed crackers and salami, and Beckett fetched a glass of water as they munched the little treats. He handed the drink over, and Sergio latched onto his sleeve. “You are not going?”

Beckett shook his head and made himself comfortable on the floor. “Mm, I like this view,” Sergio said between bites. “Another time, though, yeah?”

“Let’s resume our question game. I believe it’s my turn,” Beckett said.

Sergio shrugged. “Fire away, mi tesorino.”

Beckett’s brain stuttered. _My treasure._ He rubbed a hand over his face and under his sunglasses. Malkavians. Okay, don’t think about it now. It was unimportant. Think of an idle question. “Ah, what do you like?”

“Like?”

“That’s what I said. And please don’t say anything sentimental, like ‘me.’ I’ve still got your blood in my brain and I might halfway believe you.”

Beckett caught a small smile on Sergio’s face. In a blink, it was gone. “I like fish.”

“To eat?”

“No, no, like—goddamn I don’t know the English. It is water in a box in my house.”

“An aquarium.”

“Yes—that. I like the fish fancy. Fuck. _Fancy fish_ with the colors and spots. Like algae eaters otocinclus and little groups of tetras _._ I have an aquarium at Haven, and Zelde has promised to take care with them while I am gone.”

“Sergio.”

“Hm?”

“Have you been thinking in Sicilian and translating this whole time?”

“Of course. Usually I am better at it, but I am tired.”

Beckett switched to Italian. “Do you like this the better?”

Sergio’s eyes widened. They said in the same language: “You speak Italian?”

“My Latin is better.”

“Latin—it killed the Romans and now it’s killing me,” Sergio chuckled. “English is fine, but I appreciate you trying. Maybe I teach you Sicilian one day. It is angrier.”

Beckett snorted, and Sergio got an immensely pleased look on their face. They brushed imaginary crumbs off their cuffs and reached their hand out. Without thinking, Beckett bumped their fingers with the top of his head, and Sergio rewarded him by smoothing down his hair, tracing his jaw, and lifting his chin. Beckett looked up past his sunglasses and into Sergio’s pale, narrow face. Their gaze loomed heavy, eyes dark as coal—dark enough to give up everything and become lost, to burn in empty void forever.

Sergio’s voice was quiet. “Oh my. You must have been so careful, with this submission within you, no?”

It was too much. Beckett closed his eyes. “Is that your question?”

A long moment of silence before: “Yes,” but it was in a rasp that Beckett hadn’t heard before. Not out of Sergio’s smooth mouth.

“I…try not to get close to people. But I want to. I want to all the time. But they think—Kindred have been conditioned to think—that the power that comes from thrones is more desirable than the power that comes from hearts. I—you—you have no idea how unique you are.”

“I think I am beginning to get idea,” Sergio said. Even quieter, they added, “Another reason I do not want to be Kindred: I fear what it would do to me. What I would become. What I have become as a mortal is enough. I spilled much blood, before I came to Los Angeles.”

Beckett sighed. “Not as much as me.”

“You do not know that, mi tesorino. I have not given you a number.” Despite the dread implication of their words, their kiss tasted sweet. Their incense and cassia smell washed over him. Maybe he was still drunk, but he wanted to stay on his knees.

Sergio didn’t exactly break the spell when they said “Bed,” like it was an order. His mind had sunk to unconscious basics, like he’d been the one up all day. He did not register where Sergio led him, besides that it was underground. The endpoint bedroom had whitewashed walls, a burnt orange tile floor, and dark wood furniture. A craft table with a silent sewing machine, two huge wardrobes, a dresser with wilting flowers in a vase atop, and a four-poster bed with flowing blue linen caught his attention, but barely.

Sergio rifled through the dresser, pulled out a cotton shift, and threw it at him. Beckett caught it on instinct, which brought him back to himself a bit. “I am guessing you don’t have a nightshirt. You can wear this one—I think it is your size.”

Dubious, Beckett held the garment out. To his surprise, it matched his frame. “Whose is this? Or do you like strangling yourself on the extra fabric?”

“It is Cesare’s—he is a man I am fucking. A pilot who was discharged because of—how you say—he drinks too much? We fit together nice, but I think he is a little in love with me, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Right. Open relationships. Beckett turned his back and stripped. The loose cotton did fit, though the keyhole neckline left little to the imagination. He folded his clothes up and put them on the lone chair by the desk. When he turned around, Sergio had their hands on their skinny hips and they peered at him curiously. Beckett thought they were getting a good look at his exposed eyes and claws, but this notion was soon corrected with: “Are you _sure_ I cannot make you feel good tonight?”

Beckett tried to fight the smile, but decided to fail. “Go to bed, Sergio.”

“All right, all right—but you come too.”

They climbed in together. Once under the sheet, Beckett rolled onto his side and propped up elbow to hold his head. Taking off their glasses and putting them on a nightstand Beckett hadn’t noticed until now, Sergio immediately snuggled in, nuzzling against his chest with a sigh. Beckett kissed their temple.

“You feel good—it is still so hot I don’t want blankets. Only sheet.”

Beckett’s free hand smoothed down Sergio’s shoulder and didn’t see any reason to stop there. With the lightest pressure he could manage, he traced down to Sergio’s elbow, waist, hipbone, and upper thigh.

“Keep doing that,” they whispered. “Please.”

“Sleep, my dear,” Beckett said. Bold of him to say—he’d be asleep himself in an hour. Maybe an hour and a half, if he was lucky.

“But it is your turn to ask a question.”

He chuckled. “What would you change about my outfit? Explain to me what’s wrong with it.”

“Oof, that would take too long.” Sergio yawned. “Not enough pockets for all your little bits and bobs. Could fit more weapons or sunglasses or compass or whatever. And the suspenders—pah! They look good, but you can have little pouches on a belt no problem. A change of colors, so your gloves are not so noticeable. Some buttons so the shirt sleeves stay rolled up when you are doing delicate work.”

He snickered. “Anything else?”

“Your jacket—make it soft leather. More durable than canvas. Maybe the interior fabric is silk or something, because cold is more a problem for you than heat. Now my turn.”

“Go ahead.” He kept up the soothing tracing of skin, over and over.

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

“Yes. I’m afraid you’ve given me little choice, judging the time.”

“Good. Your turn.”

“How much can you see without your glasses? The blood doesn’t heal them?”

Sergio rolled back enough to squint at Beckett’s face. A curled hand snaked out, drew Beckett’s chin close, and kissed him sound. “I can see you. That’s what matters.”

A deep, protective rumble of his throat. “Allow me to know in specific.”

“You assume it’s a defect.” Sergio kissed him again. “It’s not. I can see shapes, but they are blurry. I can’t sew worth a damn. One time I tried and the line was higgly piggly awful.” They pressed their oven-hot palm to Beckett’s chest and spread the sweltering bones of fingers wide. “I know the shape of you, and that is enough.”

Beckett had no reply to that, so Sergio settled. Beckett resumed the searing trail of his tracing. In the quiet, he could hear Sergio’s breathing and the steady wet thump of their heart. “Sleep,” he repeated, and his voice again came out a deep rumble. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

It seemed Sergio could take some direction. Their breath lengthened from relaxing, to dozing, to true slumber. Beckett was dozing off himself when his ears caught the slight creaking of the door, and he felt her shadow among all the shadows in the room.

He whispered, “Cassandra.”

“Good morning, my darling,” she said, matching his low tone, the one only a fellow Kindred with attuned hearing could detect. The mattress behind him dipped as she sat. “I take it the date went well?”

“I don’t want to wake them—they just fell asleep.” He continued his petting, his tracing. He didn’t turn. She was a murmur in the dark.

“They’re always pushing themself,” she said. “I wanted to let you know I talked to Jeanette, and a private room has been prepared for you, should you need it.”

“I’m comfortable here.”

“Of course. I’m glad you had a good time.”

She rose to go, but Beckett raised his voice a hairsbreadth to stop her. “Cassandra?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to tell me something. What is Sergio’s curse?”

The sigh she released was a long one. “Wouldn’t you rather ask them?”

“I don’t think they’ll tell me.” He remembered Sergio’s insistence that being a ghoul was good, that they didn’t regret anything.

“You’re right about that. Why do you want to know?”

Beckett stopped his pattern to brush a stray hair from Sergio’s cheek. “I want to protect them. I want to help you protect them.”

Cassandra was silent for a long time, pondering. Beckett returned to applying his undead coolness to Sergio’s human warmth.

Finally, hesitantly she said, “They have low moods. The psychologists call it depression. It’s worse in winter, with the shortness of sunlight. During those periods, they can’t bear to get out of bed, and they sleep endlessly. They feel heavy and tired and regretful.”

“So they do better here, in Casablanca, in the desert?”

“Yes.”

Silence reigned again, and Beckett vaguely wondered if Cassandra was going to let the blue hour turn gray and for dawn’s torpor to take her sitting up in Sergio’s bed. But then she spoke again. “I think something is wrong with us Bonpensieros, with the way we love.”

“How so?”

“It always comes out malformed and sharp and twisted. Malkavians are cursed yes, but I think I got off rather easy, hearing Caine’s Voice. I hear the Cobweb, but I can still think and act, you know? I can hide it. Back in LA, whenever someone new came to town, it took them time to realize I wasn’t a Toreador. But with Zelde, with Sergio? The curse hurts them so much. Was any part of what I have given them a gift? I wonder.”

“What happens to Zelde?”

“She cannot bear to go past the door. It’s a block, a phobia. It took every effort and coaxing and assurance to get her on the ship last autumn. It’s partly why I sent her from me, even though she was my fledging childe—I didn’t want her to get stuck here, in Frank’s, in a foreign country so close to the trash happening in Europe. I’d rather have her stuck in LA, with more familiar supports.”

“She seemed fine, when I left her. If that assuages you any.”

“It does. I must remember she is a grown woman and can manage, though I hate that she has to manage. It may have taken her longer to get off the boat, but she did it. Thank you for minding her, on the ship. I forgot to say.”

“She is a model childe,” he said, and he meant it. Cassandra had Embraced Zelde in Casablanca and, after a month, Zelde had sailed away with the rest of them on Enzo’s cruise ship. Beckett had noted early and often how well-adjusted Zelde was to the transition. Remarkably so. But maybe more was going on than he was privy to.

“Do you want Sergio to travel with you?” Cassandra asked, suddenly.

Hmmm. Taking a ghoul, full of human blood, to a floating city of entirely Kindred—and frenzy-prone Brujah Kindred at that. “I think it would be too dangerous for them.”

“You can ask tomorrow.” Gentle, she added, “They are not made of glass either.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Are you two done whispering about me?”

Beckett jerked—how had Sergio woken? Their breathing hadn’t changed at all. How much had they heard?

Cassandra was instantly on the other side of the bed and soothing. “Oh, I’m sorry, darling. I was just checking on you and Beckett. We’ll tell you everything tomorrow evening, okay?”

“I have already heard everything, and I don’t want to go on pirate ships full of stinky people who want to eat me. I want you to get in bed with us. Two little refrigerator vampires are better than one.”

Cassandra met Beckett’s gaze with a question on her face, and Beckett smirked. “You heard the ghoul.”

“Yes, that’s right. I am in charge,” Sergio muttered as they pushed against Beckett’s chest like a particularly feverish vole. “Lay on your back, Beckett.”

With amusement, Beckett did as directed, and Sergio put their head on his breast with that long dreamer’s sigh of theirs. Cassandra slipped under the sheets and spooned close. Beckett stretched out an arm, and she kissed his knuckles and nuzzled his palm. “Good morning, you two, and good night.”


End file.
